


Hannover Fist

by sksdwrld



Series: Hannover Fist [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, reluctant owner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksdwrld/pseuds/sksdwrld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saer is a young Native man whose Soul Quest takes him into the territory of the Southern Settlers. He is captured and eventually delivered to Jeston. Jeston is a lesser lord and one of the few settlers whose world isn't colored by prejudice,but is darkened by the loss of his wife and child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hannover Fist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miri Thompson](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Miri+Thompson).



> For Miri_Thompson, who requested slavery as a punishment for a crime and/or a reluctant owner. 
> 
> Ogilhinn is a hard and cold land, located on a fictional globe somewhere between Ireland and North America. It was once strongly populated by Natives, not dissimilar to the tribes found throughout New England and Canada, but is now roughly divided into Northern and Southern Provinces. The tribes have been pushed to the North by the settlers and are primarily peaceful hunter-gatherers who believe in coexisting with the land and animals. They have been driven into the Northern country by settlers who naturally believe that everything that lives is meant to be conquered. Their loyalty lies with a foreign king and his policies, and land is broken into large estates and divided amongst the nobles who oversee and rule the common folk, their serfs. I apologize in general to Native American tribal culture, which I ripped off and combined to suit my needs without citing individual groups.

Part I 

Saer tucked his wrap more tightly around himself and hazarded a glance at the sky. Dusk was falling quickly, and with it, the temperature, and his patience for sitting in the crooked arm of a tree with his shoddy bow and three warped arrows. His stomach growled, reminding him yet again of its hollowness. He sighed, and blew a strand of raven-black hair away from his cheek, then began his descent to the snow-dusted, earthen floor. As he trudged along, he tucked his hand into a sack tied around his waist with a bit of worn leather thong. In it was a dwindling handful of thin, roasted chips made from the inner bark of a freshly downed white pine. Saer withdrew three chips, cinching the sack tightly shut again before popping one of the chips in his mouth. He crunched it between his teeth, savoring the resinous flavor that spilled across his tongue. Those in the Southern Province would have laughed at his people for eating bark, but they were all too aware of it's nutritional qualities, and in the hardest of times, its ability to sustain.

As he doubled back toward the thick stand of trees he'd been living in for the last week, he decided to loop around the stream. There, he refilled his skein in the icy rush. From the thicket he was in, he could see a metallic gleam in the sharpening moonlight. It was one of the Southerner's iron teeth traps, and for the last three days, there had been a hare in it. Saer hadn't touched it because he was always careful to hide his tracks, keep his head low, and keep away from the Southern people who lived at the borderlands. But now, he found himself wondering if they'd forgotten about the bait they'd set. Any longer and that hare was going to go rotten, despite the cold. His stomach gave another gurgling growl and his decision was made. If hunger had made Saer daring, satiety pushed him over the brink into carelessness. 

In retrospect, building a small flame necessary to cook the hare should have been sufficient. He could have doused the flames and buried the whole carcass under the coals and let it slow roast if he'd needed to. But once the spark had blossomed, Saer found himself stocking the flames, building a great fire that would have been enough to warm the hands and feet of an entire hunting party. Yes, discretion had gone right out with the waste bucket, and Saer, who had thought he deserved a bit of comfort for all his troubles, was more than paying for it now.

"Bind the Savage hand and foot," the leader of the Southerner hunting party commanded needlessly, as he circled the now dwindling firepit. His men were already busy with the ropes. He drew up suddenly and prodded the bloody rabbit pelt Saer had laid out on the rocks, intending to cure it later.

"So, Savage...you're not only tresspassing in Hannover Forest and burning our lands, but poaching our game as well?" 

Saer didn't respond, he was far too busy twisting and bucking against the earthen floor, trying to escape the grasping, gripping hands of the white men. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" He snarled in his own tongue. 

A slow smile formed on the face of the man who was sitting on Saer's back now, and wrestling Saer's fists into bindings. "Pretty one, ain'cha?" He pulled Saer's hair, drawing his head back, then stroked his face with a cold and dirty thumb. "Got a real nice mouth..." 

Saer was going to show the dirty Southerner what his mouth was really good for. He growled and snapped at the fingers that were teasing his lips and cheek. 

"Bloody savage bit me!" he exclaimed. "Gonna hafta gag you now, Pretty." 

"Don't bother," the leader said, suddenly more cross than amused. He drew a heavy blade from his belt. Saer flinched as the man's arms swung.

Instead of slicing pain at his throat, there was only a dull explosion across the crown of his head, and then blackness. Saer awoke in a cold, dank room with a thin sliver of light filtering under the bottom of a poorly aligned door. His head throbbed in time with his beating heart, and when he lifted his hand to his crown, the hair there was matted and stiff. The pain from a slight pressure of his fingers made him grunt aloud. He cursed to himself and then began the process of sorting his thoughts.

Where was he and how had he gotten there? Well, that part was only too fresh in his memory and did not warrant revisiting. Why was he there, and what had prompted their untoward actions in the first place? Because of the stinking Southerners, who dared to claim the land as their own -- it was a wonder the God and Goddess hadn't struck them down, wiped the offensive beings from the world: the beautiful gift they had given for all people to share. Saer's mind wandered momentarily, as he thought back on the tale of creation that had been shared during each spring festival.

Saer's thoughts soon wandered to another story which was also shared around many a campfire, as a warning from the elders: The story was that of the settlers who'd come on their boats, bringing livestock, and seed, and steel and hate. Over the course of a few generations, they had populated and taken over the land that all of Saer's people had once occupied. Now, Saer's people lived only in the Northern most aspect, and were being driver farther and farther still with each cycle of the seasons. Survival was getting harder, and where his people had once thrived, they were now weak, dying, their population dwindling. In the meanwhile, the settlers were marring the woodlands with their houses and machines and fields. Grumbled tones outside his cell broke his reverie and redirected his thoughts back to the unpleasant questions. When had Saer been brought here? Or, rather, how long had he been unconscious? This question was nearly unanswerable. 

Though his belly had been full when he was taken unawares in the forest, the gnawing hunger he now felt had been a pervading sensation for much of Saer's recent life, that he was almost growing used to it. Almost. Saer felt a sense of dread as he began to wonder what was going to happen to him now that the Southern people had decided he'd committed a crime. And furthermore, what could Saer do to make certain that he survived and returned to his people? 

In the small, dark cell, there was little he could do but wait. It was hours before the door clanged open, but before Saer could push his stiff body off the floor, there was the clatter of tin on stone, a noise so disconcerting that it made him shudder and flinch. Then a bucket was swung and dropped so carelessly that it teetered, sloshing half it's contents. Stale bread turning mushy amidst thin gruel, and fresh water; Saer glutted himself on the white man's feast then retreated to the corner with the bucket, which he could swing at a head at the very least, if he had the opportunity. 

As it turned out, Saer's jailers were cleverer than he would have given them credit for. When they finally entered his cell, they came as a pair; one of them brandished a broad sword while the other retrieved the vessels of his meal. One of them addressed Saer, and though he both understood and spoke their gutteral tongue thanks to a few passing traders, he would not deign to converse with them. "Bloody savages," spat the short, fat man as he turned to the other. "Don't know why we bother giving them the same treatment as civilized folk. A waste of my time to send for the interpreter. We ought to hang them all." 

"You say that about everyone," scowled the second jailer, a thin man of average height, who rolled his eyes at the first man, and hefted the bucket under his arm. "Anyway, look at him. Young. A waste to take his hand. Stealing? He's starving. Better he should be given a chance--"

"Chance, for what?" Grunted the first, stepping backward with his weapon still trained on Saer, who scrunched unmoving in the corner. "Stick a dagger in his master's back while he sleeps? Hell, I would, if it were me. You know we got enough folk to plough our fields, tend the sheep." He grunted. "Women in the kitchens. No, he'll be another set of holes for the nobles to fuck and play with. You think that's better? Me, I'd take the hanging..." 

"I'll get the rope," The second joked, gruffly. Both of them shook their heads piteously at Saer, and turned to depart. Saer blinked as the darkness settled back around him, and tried to sort their words into something that made sense.

Lose his hand? Holes for nobles? Ploughing fields and tending sheep-manual labor, now that he understood. He had plenty of time to think on this, as it was days before anyone returned for any length of time longer than it took to throw his meals into his cell. Saer was beginning to rethink his silence, but he couldn't take it back now, it would only anger them worse. Finally, a rough and weathered looking man wearing several swinging cured pelts around his waist was accompanied into the cell by two jailers-Saer couldn't tell if they were the same from before, or different. Time had warped his memory too much. The man with the furs, who Saer surmised to be a trader, addressed him in Saer's native language; melifluous compared to the ineloquent grunts of the southern settlers.

He spared a glance to the jailers, and then went on quickly, as though he found the cell more distasteful than Saer did, "You're being held for trespassing, destroying land, poaching. As you were caught in the act, you forfeit your chance at trial. The people of Ogilhinn have found you guilty. Understood?" Saer scowled, but nodded. Nothing he hadn't gathered from them before, but to hear it in his own tongue seemed like so much more a betrayal of his being. It was bitter irony, for they who raped the land and gave nothing in return now accused Saer of the same, when all he was trying to do was survive, taking only what he needed, and barely that. Saer cleared his throat, voice hoarse from disuse, and finally grunted, "Yes." "Ho! He speaks!" said one jailer jovially. "Hush," said the other. "Your punishment comes in two forms, and the people here consider themselves gracious enough to let you choose. Should you want to return to your people-" "Yes!" Saer said, with too much enthusiasm, scrambling up from his low crouch. "You will lose your hand." The trader shook his head. "What?"

"They will cut it off with an axe, boy. Your hand, they will take it. And if you don't die from blood loss or shock, you will have to make the journey immediately."

Saer recoiled in horror. "No! How could they? How could I? How would I hunt? Who would have a disfigured man for a mate? I couldn't provide...I would be useless, a burden on my people!"

The man nodded grimly. "That is why they give you another choice. You can be...there is no word for it in your language. Traded, for money. The officials will claim the money as restitution for your crimes."

"Trade people for money?" Saer spat. "There is no equivalent. That is disgusting."

"It happens frequently here, they will set you out and trade for the highest price."

"Who trades?" Saer questioned.

"All kinds. Mostly those with...high status."

"What will happen to me?" Saer asked, letting his eyes close. The thought was nearly unbearable.

"It is not for me to say." The trader sighed and shifted.

"For how long?" Saer felt his pride already slipping away.

"There are too many stars," the trader replied. It was Saer's people's way of saying 'indefinitely'.

Saer felt the blood drain from his face and he slipped back down, gripping the stone beneath his feet with his fingertips. What a decision they gave him- a burden on his people, or lose himself forever. His life would be ruined either way. If he never returned, his family would assume that he had succumbed to the elements while on his latest quest, the last one he needed to complete before being taken under the wing of their tribe's medicine man. His loss would be mourned, his life honored. But if he managed to make it back, lacking an essential limb, it would mean hardship for them. They had suffered enough. He summoned the last modicum of dignity that remained, lifted his chin, and sealed his fate.

___

Saer knew when his presence was considered burdensome. When he was a youth who had not yet completed his vision quest, he was considered a child by his people. He was too old to play children's games, but too young to hunt with the men. Between both worlds, he had suffered his fair share of burdened looks, from the men and women alike. The expression on the face of the man Saer currently stood before was the same.

"What is the meaning of this, Calder?"

The man who purchased Saer at the auction (one of the most embrassing and shameful things Saer had ever endured) smirked at the other man. "I've told you, you need a companion. Aithne has been go-"

"Do not speak of it! I will not hear her name!" Jeston interrupted, slamming his fist on the desktop. Saer felt himself flinch, and he was ashamed of his weakness. It seemed Calder was not put off by the display, and merely quirked his brow. "I do not...need a companion. And certainly not one in the form of a mute savage being punished for stealing a mere hare. "

"He's not mute." Calder said, prodding him, and earning nothing but a glare from Saer in return. "He's pretty enough, to be a companion, don't you think, Jeston?." His salicious grin grew wider.

"I suppose, if you enjoy that sort of thing..." the man named Jeston conceded after a long, appraising silence, with a shake of his auburn-haired head. Saer felt himself blush. "But as I do not enjoy forcing...civilized folk or savages, for that matter, I have no use for him."

Calder waved his hand flippantly. "Find something for him, then Jes. Put him in your kitchens, your stables, your fields. He's paid for, and the papers are in your name," He untucked a scroll from his pocket and flipped it across the desk to Jeston.

Bending to place his palms flat on the wood, he advised, "He's your trouble now."

Jes scowled, his deep green eyes flicking back and forth as he read, as though he needed confirmation only paperwork could bring. In the meanwhile, Calder circled Saer in a way that made him nervous. "Pity," he remarked lowly, and seemingly to himself. "Here I thought I was delivering you, untried, as a gift. And we'll never know..." His fingertip grazed

Saer's arm lightly, and Saer shivered, then jerked away from him with another glare.

"Calder, leave him alone for fuck's sake..." Jeston growled, pushing away from the desk. Calder danced away from him, holding up his hands in mock defeat. Saer curled his arms around himself. His people were not nervous as a rule. But here, he was outnumbered, unarmed, confused. Even their morals and ideals were foreign, and that was perhaps the most disorienting thing of all.

After Calder had gone, Saer's heart continued to pound. He felt it in his throat, reedy and fast like a baby bird. He tracked the man called Jeston wearilly while standing mere feet from the desk.

Jeston returned his stare for a few moments before clearing his throat and retaking his seat. He began to shuffle through one of the drawers, and then, almost to himself said, "For what it's worth, I'm not prejudiced against your kind. There are people here who are more savage than you are..." His eyes flicked toward the door and back quickly. "Calder may be my brother, but by the gods, he is one of them." When his confession went unanswered, he sighed. "Of course you have no idea what I'm saying." He pressed his fingers into his eyesockets. "One bloody more thing I have to figure out. Great! That's just great!"

Despite all odds, Saer felt a tinge of sympathy for the man before him. He appeared to be no more than ten winters older than Saer. He was tall and broad, with a strong jaw and, despite his outward demeanor, Saer would say there was a sort of kindness in his eyes, eyes that were the color of a stand of pines in the morning light. Jeston would not be considered handsome by Saer's people, but there was something compelling about him. And more, something from within the man strongly called to Saer's core. It was time, a voice inside Saer said. Time to be honest. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, almost a whimper.

It caught Jeston's attention and his head snapped up. "Did you just say...?"

"I…" Saer's eyes darted sideways and then back. He licked his lips, and silently urged himself to go on. There was no use bringing further hardship on this arrangment, which was clearly unwanted by both of them. Perhaps they could forge a compromise. "I speak your tongue," he admitted with some difficulty. It seemed it was far easier for him to understand than speak it.

"You do." It was not a question, though Jeston looked briefly on him with curiosity. "Well, then, perhaps you'd like to tell me what you're called?" He waved the paper Calder had delivered to him in the air. "You're listed here as Unnamed Savage, and while that has a certain ring to it, it's a bit unwieldy, wouldn't you agree?"

Saer wasn't sure whether nor not the white man was mocking him, as he was unused to their words and inflections. He cocked his head and studied the man who now 'owned' him, as if he were a necklace or a some other such worthless trinket.

"Well?" Jeston prompted.

"Saer," He said finally. "I am called, Saer." 

 

Part II

 

Jeston rubbed his hands over his face and looked out the window and across the field. Three weeks ago, Saer had been delivered into his hands; a well-spoken, if quiet young man with a strong dedication to his family and people; a young man who was dignified without being proud, and honest as the day was long. Admirable qualities in Jeston's book. In the brief conversations they'd had, Jeston had come to respect his new charge, enough to honor his simple request to be assigned a duty where he could be of use, outdoors, if possible. And so it came to be that Jeston sent him off to the stables two weeks and six days ago.

Truth be told, Jeston had needed to send him away from the house. As much as he was loathe to admit it, Calder had been right in some respects. Not necessarily that he needed companionship-he had more than enough correspondance to take care of as it was, between letters to the King's advisors and managing the land and his people. There was little time for more than brief contact with the other household occupants, and he relished his quiet.

But as far as consorting went, well...it had been three long and lonely years in which he had become intimately familiar with the act of self-pleasuring. His wife had passed in the midst of childbirth, taking the babe- a son, with her to the nether world. Saer couldn't help that he was easy on the eyes. Very easy, with his amber-colored and long, lean muscled limbs, silky black hair that shone like crow feathers, high boned cheeks, and dark soulful eyes. But Jeston didn't have it in him. He'd been honest when he reported to Calder that he had no desire to force himself on anyone. And he couldn't imagine that Saer had any romantic interest in him, a cold, bitter man rapidly approaching middle age, and his owner at that. Besides, Jeston was still mourning for his wife, their son, and the life they took with them. He would be eternally mourning, so it was best to push nubile young distractions out of sight, and out of mind. "Daddy?"

A timid voice drew him from his reverie, and Jeston turned, the sight of his daughter drawing a rare, genuine smile from him. "Aine," he said fondly, and lowered himself to one knee, holding his arm out to her. She ran to him and he smothered her in a fierce hug. He saw too little of his daughter, as she spent most of the day with her nurse, and was often asleep before he broke from his work for the evening. She looked too much like her mother, even at the tender age of five, with her reddish-blond curls and freckled nose, and crystal blue eyes. And though Aine filled his heart with joy, too, it broke a little every time he looked upon her face.

"Daddy?" She said, beaming up at him. "Will you take me riding today?"

"Hmmm," Jeston said, putting on a thoughtful expression. "Now, why would I do something like that?"

"Daddy!" Aine squealed, then pouted. "You promised!"

"Ahhh," He smiled, unable to tease her for too long. "So I did. And so we shall." Jeston had promised himself that he would never lie to his daughter, but on that day, it was necessary. "How fares Saer?" he questioned the stable hand who came out to greet them as they approached.

"Oh, fine, fine." Was the response. "Has a way with the animals, but no wonder, eh?"

Jeston smiled and nodded. "Good. Send him out with Sadie for Anya."

As Saer emerged minutes later with the steed, Jeston noticed there was something different about the way he was carrying himself: almost hunched and drawn in. "Saer," Jeston said by way of greeting, and frowned when the young man flinched.

"Sir," he said lowly, keeping his body turned toward the horse. He held the reins out from the bridle, and when Jeston reached for it, he shied again, rapidly relinquishing them and gliding around the rear of the horse.

"Saer?" Jeston frowned. "Are you feeling unwell?"

The native didn't spare a glance for Jeston and mumbled incomprehensibly. Warning bells were going off in Jeston's head by now and he lowered Aine from his hip to the ground, gesturing her back a few paces. He followed Saer around to the other side of the horse, and the man moved away from him again. Unamused by the game, he reached forward, taking the young man by the shoulder. Saer made a sound that was half-scream, half-sob and fell to his knees. Then he scrambled up and back, eyes wild and terrified, not unlike an untrained stallion. He spoke rapidly in his own tongue, then turned and fled into the stables.

"Aine, go back to the house!"

"But Daddy!" She whined in protest.

"Aine, now!" Jeston barked, striding quickly after Saer. He caught one of the stable hands by the front of his jerkin.

"Escort my daughter back to her nurse immediately. Do not dally." At the affirmation from the stammering young man, he released him with a nod, and continued his pursuit.

"Saer? Saer!" He found the native crouching in one of the back stalls. He pushed to his feet and away from Jeston as he approached. "Damn it, stay still!" Jeston commanded, trapping him in the corner of the stall. "What's wrong with you, boy? Are you injured?"

Saer turned his body, angling his left arm, the one he was favoring away from Jeston.

"Let me see..." He stretched his fingers toward the boy and he howled, falling to his knees and pushing his head against his boots. Jeston blinked in confusion. Was this even the same young man from three weeks prior? Jeston crouched and pulled Saer so that he was sitting on his heels before him. The native was breathing rapidly and looked as though he might bolt any moment. Jeston gave him a gentle caress, almost absently, and his left hand came to settle at the curve of Saer's neck, where he curled his fingers firmly. With his right hand, he pushed back the lapels of the overcoat he wore and opened the buttons that lined the shirt he'd given to Saer three weeks ago (Which looked -and smelled- as though it hadn't been washed since). As he flung back the lapel, he gasped. There was a crusted and bloody lesion the side of his fist, marring the flesh on the left side of Saer's upper chest and shoulder. The skin intermingled with the scab and surrounding it was an angry pink, and wept a thick yellow pus in some places.

"Please!" Saer said, turning his head aside. "Is your mark. Your mark!"

"My mark?" Jeston was confused, but the boy was rambling and near hysterical. He peered closer, and when the realization dawned on him, bile rose in his throat. The scabbed wound on Saer's chest bore a strong resemblance to the brand they used on the sheep to distinguish the animals while they grazed in shared pastures. The thought that anyone had put the hot iron to human flesh, Saer's flesh, made him nearly see red with rage. "Get up." he said. "You're coming with me, now."

Saer cowed again, but followed Jeston back to the main house without argument, the lapels of his shirt flapping until he caught hold of them with one hand and pulled them closed. Jeston threw open the back door, pulling Saer into the stairwell as he called to the startled kitchen staff, "Summon the physician. Send him to my quarters immediately."

After the physician arrived, Saer had to be sedated before the man could tend to his wounds properly. Jeston stood in the same spot he had earlier that same day, looking out over the fields and berating himself. How could he have been so naive and foolish as to think that the men in the stable would see past the color of Saer's skin and see him as Jeston did? It should have been obvious given Calder's reaction, but he'd simply dismissed his brother as an idiot and a lecher, nothing more. How could he have so blindly turned Saer over to a group of bigots who branded him as though he was an animal? Jeston could only imagine what other indecencies the native had suffered at their hands. They'd had nearly a month with him, unsupervised. Jeston supposed he should feel lucky that Saer wasn't dead, but he wasn't so sure that Saer would feel that way about it.

It wasn't long before a subtle knock came at the door, and when Jeston turned, it was cracked open to reveal the questioning face of Aine's nurse. From behind her, he could hear the sound of soft sniffling. He hazarded one final glance toward the unconscious form taking up residence in his bed, and the busy doctor hovering over it before stepping outside, knowing it would be far easier to make it up to Aine for his transgressions than it ever would be to Saer.

When Jeston returned to the stable later that same evening, it was with grim determination. He drew down one of the horse whips from the wall, then, he eyed each of the assembled men in turn and began his line of questioning. Before long, the youngest of them crumbled in fear and ratted out the three members involved. Jeston was not cruel by nature, but could not stand by and allow the sort of treatment that befell Saer. He castigated them and then doled out sound punishment while the others watched. When he was done, he threw the short whip to the floor, wiped the sweat from his brow, and then pointed to the door, reminding each of the men that they were free to leave if they didn't see eye to eye.

Three days later, he'd gone down to the kitchen to see if Saer could be put to use there when he was well again, and was less than pleased to find that there wasn't much that needed doing, although the kitchen staff had seemed willing, at least, to find something for him to do if needed. Next, he'd gone to secure the young man a bed in the servant's quarters, only to be told, with all due respect, of course, that many of the staff members were either too afraid of 'The Savage' or too prejudiced against their kind to comfortably share their living space with him. One of the gardeners expressed that he would not hesitate to gut Saer if he looked at any of the women the wrong way, and Jeston dismissed him on the spot. However, as the responsible (if not reluctant) party accountable for Saer's well being for the forseeable future, Jeston could not in good conscience allow the young man to share quarters in an environment in which he would likely fare no better than he had in the stables. Jeston returned to his suite, slamming the door behind him so hard that it rattled in the frame.

Unbelievable. There was only one solution that he could come to at the time. He called for one of the housekeepers and bade them bring another mattress to the room, complete with bedclothes and pillows. It was only after he'd made his decision and he'd turned from the door that he remembered that he was not alone. Saer stared at him, wide-eyed and pale-faced in Jeston's bed, where he'd spent the past several days recovering. The physician had reported the wound was infected, and Saer near delirious with fever. He'd been under sedation for nearly four whole days. Jeston felt his mood soften just looking at the young native, and more than a little sheepish for his outburst. "Alright, there?" 

 

 

Part III 

 

Saer laid awake in the bed, staring at the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. It had been nearly a fortnight since Jeston had collected him from the stables. He had no recollection of the first four days, as they passed in the haze of a delirious fever and sedation. When he'd come to his senses, he'd panicked and tried to escape. But it was only after the continued patience of Jeston that he realized the man was unwavering in his honest declaration that he did not consider Saer to be a 'savage', as reported by the horse trainers and grooms alike. His shoulder and chest was usually bandaged, but at night he left it off and slept bare-chested in order to air the wound. The crusty, brown-black scab was slowly flaking away to reveal shiny, pink skin in the shape of a stylized H, which Saer learned, stood for Hannover, Jeston's family name. The remainder of his days had passed slowly, his limited interactions and physician-ordered rest leaving him with only the company of his thoughts most days.

That was almost alright. His brief experience in the stables was enough to turn him away from white people, forever. Jeston, he would tolerate. The man had never so much as raised his voice to him during their tenure together, though he would be lying if he said there were no awkward moments that passed between them, silences heavy as pine boughs after a winter storm. Jeston was quietly stoic, with seeming infinite patience, though he carried his burdens visibly-the clench of his jaw, the lines in his brow, the way his shoulders and thighs tightened as he stood before the broad window in his room. Saer had tried to sleep on the floor, but Jeston wouldn't hear of it, giving him his own bed and having a stuffed mattress brought in for himself.

The older man was not relaxed, even in sleep, which he entered curled like a child around his pillow and often exited with a jolt. He cried out in his sleep, waking Saer from time to time, and then Saer would perch himself on one elbow and watch until his thrashing subsided, afraid to interfere with the design of the dream world. Dreams carried important messages between the realms, and revealed themselves in different ways. Although, he was beginning to doubt the traditional wisdom of his people that said even nightmares had their purpose. He suspected he was alternately keeping Jeston awake with his own, and in those dark, tense moments when he awoke, the room was almost too quiet, Jeston's labored breathing absent though his form was there, still and statuesque. He would lie staring up at the ceiling until sleep claimed him again, or the sun rose, which ever came first. But there had been more than one such occasion when he had to fight the desire to hunker down alongside Jeston and pull the older man's strong arms around him.

Tonight, Jeston was fighting his demons more loudly than usual. "Aithne..." he moaned, rolling his head side to side. He buried his hands in the bedclothes and dragged them upward, his face knotted with anguish. "No, no!" he protested, and then mumbled incoherently. The sound of his dream-sobs proved too heart wrenching for Saer to bear. He slipped from his mattress, pausing half-way to Jeston's bed as the man cried, "Not the boy!" Jeston convulsed, drawing the mess of sheets and blankets around himself, constricting his movements. Then, he began to fight against them, his chest heaving as he kicked and battled.

Saer didn't know it was possible to be so active in sleep without waking. He crossed the cold floor and dropped one knee onto the mattress, reaching for Jeston's shoulder. He shushed and hummed the way his people did to fussy children and hoped it would work the same. After several moments, Jeston began to calm and Saer was able to unwind the sheets from the man's arms. As soon as Jeston's arms were freed, he slung them around Saer's torso, pulling him down to his muscled chest. "Aithne," he whispered, eyes still closed. His fingers twined into Saer's hair and drew his face downward. Saer froze as Jeston's lips sought his. It wasn't as though the advances, at another time perhaps, would be unwelcome.

Jeston was a striking and generous man, and his kindness toward Saer deserved repayment, even if it was in the only thing Saer had to give now that he was mere chattel. But Jeston was seeking the person in his dream, the one he called for almost nightly, and it would be wrong to accept affection on her behalf. Saer twisted his hand into Jeston's nightshirt and shook it slightly. "Jeston," he whispered, craning his head back from pursed lips. "Wake up."

Jeston frowned slightly, pulling more insistently. "Need you, my love. Don't go, it's been so long." He chased Saer with his lips until they connected with his cheek, and, having met the warm flesh he sought, Jeston sighed happily, turning on his side and pinning Saer half beneath him. Jeston's tongue prodded between Saer's lips even as he was protested, and Saer lost himself momentarily in the only show of affection,physical or otherwise, that he'd been privy to in months. Then Jeston arched, rubbing his tumescence against Saer's belly, and Saer's conscience kicked in. He pushed the man more firmly, and said, "Jeston, is Saer. Let go."

"Hmmm, Saer," He groaned, as he thrust his hips more rapidly this time and his mouth descended again. It was not the reaction Saer had been expecting, and when Jeston's fingers tightened on his wounded shoulder, he couldn't help the yelp that escaped him. The noise finally drew Jeston awake and he jerked into consciousness, cursing lowly.

"Jes-" Saer grunted from beneath him.

"Who--what?!" Jeston startled again, drawing away and scrubbing his face with one hand, keeping Saer pinned with the other. Finally, he peered down at Saer, then his eyes widened and he released him. "What were you--" Saer skirted back and away from Jeston, then clambered back into his own bed. "Sorry, sorry! You were--"

"Oh, Gods. Did I--?" Jeston interrupted and rubbed his face again. "I didn't--are you--did I?" Saer shook his head. "No! I...you have...dream." Damn the way words left him when he was nervous. "Bad dream. Crying. And I..." he mimed hugging, then made his shushing sound again. "Comfort."

Jeston's face softened and he looked at the wall. "Aithne..." he whispered to himself, then shook his head as though to clear it. "I was kissing her," he said to himself. "I...I kissed you!"

Saer nodded, and Jeston's body went rigid. "I shouldn't have done that." he growled, balling his hands into fists and punching the mattress. "I'm sorry....Saer, I'm sorry. You...you're not safe anywhere, are you? Not out there, and not in here with me." He pushed to his feet and stalked away from Saer, toward his desk at the other end of the room where he perched on the edge. "I'll have to find another room, and then maybe..." he continued to grumble and grouse, seemingly angry with himself for his lack of control. "And Modron knows I want you, s'been so long, and there you are only trying to help, and I practically rape you..." He rambled aloud. "Send you away, that's what I'll do!" He hopped off the desk and went around to the front of it, drawing out a candle, a scroll of parchment, an inkwell, and a nib.

Saer felt his stomach fall away. The only person in this world that he felt safe with was going to send him away, and for what? Because the man was attracted to him and thought his advances were unwanted? He didn't have to think long before he made up his mind. He met Jeston at the desk and put his hand gingerly down on the man's shoulder, calling attention away from the letter he was frantically penning. "Jeston," He said thickly when the man looked up at him. "Don't send away, please. You save me, many times. Not rape."

"This is my fault," Jeston said, reaching up and ever so lightly touching his fingertips to the puckered pink H on Saer's chest. "And I nearly took you against your will. How can you want to stay?"

"Not take." Saer said. "I give." And he began to angle his head down toward Jeston's, his hair spilling over both their shoulders.

Jeston sat back against his chair, leaning his face away. "No. You don't have to do this. We'll figure something out. I'll forge the paper work and..."

"You need." Saer insisted, sliding his leg over Jeston's thighs. "I want."

"How can you-"

"Shhh," Saer said with a shy smile. "I saved by...very...handsome man with big heart and..." He could not bring himself to make the lascivious comment that hung in the air between them, but shifted slightly, feeling Jeston's organ growing, pressing into the crevice of his backside. "And I want...have needs too." Jeston looked indecisive as Saer leaned back over him, pressing his fingertips into Jeston's shoulders. His inky black hair fell over them in a curtain, shutting out the light from the moon that filtered in the windows. "And I want." Saer whispered one last time before fitting their mouths together. 

 

Part IV 

 

Jeston knew that it was hard to give up the past. He had been struggling with his self-inflicted guilt every day for the last four years. If there ever was a moment when he felt at peace with his life, though, it would be this one. He looked up from the correspondance he'd been writing to the king's accountant, glancing across his room. Saer was looking at him from his spot on the rug in front of the fireplace. He lifted a finger to his lips, smiling as his eyes flicked down at Aine, who was curled in his lap, sleeping soundly. He pushed the paper aside and stood, stretching, then approached them. As he bent and lifted his daughter into his arms, a handful of dried cranberries scattered to the floor. "You spoil her," he whispered.

"Someone has to," he said fondly. "Besides, I not sure she ever forgive me for the day I make her Daddy break a promise to her."

"She doesn't even remember that," Jeston frowned. "She loves you."

"I know," Saer agreed, pausing at Jeston's desk to dust his letter with finishing powder. While Jeston put his daughter to bed, Saer remained behind as always to tidy the workspace and turn down the sheets and blankets, and fluff the pillows. He took his role as Jeston's personal assistant very seriously.

"There's a savage in my bed," Jeston said with amusement as he pulled his shirt over his head.

"I show you savage," Saer growled, playfully rising on his hands and knees.

Jeston doffed his trousers and let himself be tumbled into bed with the man who, on a paper somewhere in the recesses of his desk was listed as, Un-named Savage:Titled to Jeston James Hannover. Somewhere along the way, Saer managed to re-written his name on what Jeston had once thought was a cold, blackened heart. "Be careful!" He gruffed as Saer pounced on him playfully. "I'm an old man compared to you!"

"Not compared to," Saer grinned. "Just are."

Oh how Jeston rued the day Saer had finally figured out Southern humor! He tumbled Saer over and rolled on top of him, elliciting a squeal, then dug his fingers into his lover's ribcage, relishing in his boyish laugh.

"Jes, Jes!" He howled, shoving him away. "Stop! We wake everyone!"

Jeston, however, was unconcerned. Long ago, the house guests and servants had learned to ignore the cries coming from his room. And though Jeston still found it difficult to ignore their knowing looks, and he would never live down Caulder's triumphant grin. 


End file.
